Work Text:
"The Garden of Earthly Delights" (1490-1500) painted by Hieronymus Bosch.
MELANCHOLIC ADAM'S APPLE
(God's point-of-view narrative (?))
Caressing his battle-worn features, scarred by countless indescribable conflicts, you long to whisk away the tangible pain he carries, to purify him — hoping, perhaps, to expunge the burdens weighing on his desensitized, damaged soul.
Through a soothing, but clinical touch of fingertips, he's being "washed" properly to the core for the main event, as any clean freak would solemnly do: rub one defiled apple out before the big bite!
And so you rub him.
Electricity's surges through you, igniting your entire body by the mere contact of skin - your brand-new lover, nevertheless, the most mesmerizing mirage under tons and tons of piles of rotten flesh, you contemplate, while forcing yourself to drain a single fucking speck of vitality from him.
In due time, you'll get your fix out of him.
A mere prospect that cheers you up anew-
'Cause if anything, this carnage left you more lustful by the seconds, impatient, as the metallic atmosphere impregnates more the air you've been breathing.
In this snake-eating-snake environment, on top of Eren, you're entitled to be - the whole world on your lap, on their knees,
Either riding you, like a bitch in heat.
But please, don’t make the silly mistake of misinterpreting your positions here, you don’t fancy him - it’s hardly desire.
Appetite for power, however, for the potential that he possesses, on that which you still can’t wholly grasp it - even less seizing it.
Eating his heart out is the stepping stone for your ascension, you told yourself, certain that cannibalizing your hero, the savior, and end day’s prophet would proximate you towards illumination, towards intimacy.
Towards godhead.
Hence why you’ve dreamt of deflowering him, ravaging him, becoming him - for enviousness has shifted you.
You schemed and crafted plots, apparently, for ages. But your crop, hopefully, won't be prolonged any further, for the anticipation of the harvest man, from your perspective, has come to an end.
In fact, it is fingertips from your chokehold, you mean, reaping.
Smiling, then, adoringly at Eren, your maliciousness' bare like you, meanwhile his eyes grow more distant and opaque as you twist one of his speared arms with his rusted, broken swords;
In the middle of what seems to be nowhere, sitting on top of a scarlet hill, he’s found himself perversely dangling on the trunk of a singed tree, his maimed arms sustaining most of his body mass.
Pressing on his exposed nerve muscles and dissecting him like some minute experiment, you observe him expecting something other than his indifferent, unresponsive reaction.
He entertains you a bit.
Whilst sucking on your bloodied hands, damp on Eren’s previous spilled "tears", you turn away from him to gape at the reddening skies, searching for some sort of exit in this hellhole, perhaps, just behind the atlas of the clouds.
The soil you both stand in, a frequent reminder of your prerogative, dirties your feet as you revel in the sensation of moist gore and viscera - outcomes from the mayhem of an unending war of principalities.
At the appointed time, the thick tree, unceremoniously gives in - beaming, you’re undertaken by Eren’s unmatched strength.
Working his trousers out of his way with great difficulty, given that his arms are still recovering, he dislocates your arm towards him, for a better grip - intending to hate-fuck you to death with his misery.
The grief that you’ll be accountable for.
Thus, pound after pound, he tortures your sore and bruised anus, fucking your canal raw with minimum lubrication, your injuries providing, you truly become his human fleshlight.
Too drunk in his euphoria, he doesn’t show an ounce of mercy, for he hates your guts, for humanity has forsaken his bones long ago.
Spitting blood, you give him a crooked smile-
- “Why can’t you die?” Eren murmurs desperately at no one in particular. Perchance, the gods above.
Why!? To be leftovers of vile, wicked human whims?
- “Until we bleed, love-” You quietly, between disgruntled, aching gasps, guide him - acknowledging your shared agonies while having your insides rearranged. Dear God.
Determined to make this desolate earth start propelling around once more - since all life-forms were robbed from it in a swirl of changing winds - he smashes your head with as much violence and revenge as when you’ve, unfortunately, crossed each other's paths. Praying with each fist he punctures you, that this horrid nightmare will shatter into pieces, accordingly.
Although he’s more than familiar with losses, notwithstanding, he’s yet to be damned to walk the ancient ruins of his homestead, mourning what before held the land he had known, along with his precious and cherished memories of his late blended family, to thereafter, reluctantly recognize he won’t ever escape the dreaded consequences of a lifetime of accursed choices.
Despite his spirit’s still resolute and resilient in fighting you, he ceases his punches on your now disfigured skull - unloading next, his warm seed inside you.
Are you pity fucking him now?
No, your loathe’s as requited and equal on force as this hellish reality has been on him, following his birth.
So why does he see your eyes pleading for his compassion, every goddamn time he’s about to finish you?
It must be the ghost of his dearest, clawing his consciousness inside out, grounding him present on this everlasting atonement. To be attached to you, his current, and seemingly invulnerable beast.
With your head regenerating, leisurely, once again, he stares at his skinned hand, yearning for its pain to numb out his soul’s sufferment.
Now, if only you two weren’t on trial.
So to taunt him further, on cue, heaven’s uncaring tears downpour from the stars onto them, reflecting his sour humor, whereas overlooking Eren's silent laments amidst the thunderous cries of nature. Drenching them both on cold, heavy torrent of some malevolent god’s pissed-out sheer wrath.
The continuous bloodletting, watering the former apple tree hill they're laid upon, nurses and nurtures the growth of humankind's first sprout.
Their self-hatred, though, greater than their love could one day wish to be.
(Don’t) Let them be. (For) They’ll go right back to their sleep.
In the cradle of loneliness, night, shadow, and mist of Satan’s sight that is.
"The Garden of Earthly Delights" (1490-1500) painted by Hieronymus Bosch.